


Caro nome

by widevibratobitch



Category: Don Carlos - Friedrich Schiller, Don Carlos | Don Carlo - Verdi/du Locle/Méry
Genre: Angst, He's not entirely a dick, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, M/M, Philip deserves some love too, Philip is actually a cinnamon roll, Rodrigo is a male Traviata, Rodrigo's not exactly a hoe, That's you, but it doesn't count if he does it for GOOD REASONS right?, but yes he is, it's not exactly non-con, my poor boy, though Rodrigo would rather have sex with a different person, yes Carlos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 20:11:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14386242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widevibratobitch/pseuds/widevibratobitch
Summary: To sacrifice a life is easy. Rodrigo finds that giving up love and dignity hurts more.





	Caro nome

**Author's Note:**

> As usually - there is a quote from the opera but the fic works fine in both verses (actually I think it works even better in the Schiller-verse).  
> Enjoy!

Rodrigo laid on the soft bed, his gaze fixed on the rich embroidering of the canopy. The utter silence around him… around _them_ , was disturbed only by the quiet, calm breathing of the King, tangled in the sheets next to him, his naked body pressed to Rodrigo’s, one arm resting on his bare chest.

His head was throbbing, his every muscle sore and aching. His conscience accusing him, screaming at him: _what_ _have you done._ He desperately tried to keep his mind off the man sleeping beside him. Off the fact that he was lying naked, completely vulnerable in the King of Spain’s bed. Off Elisabeth. That pure, noble heart who has suffered so much. She didn’t deserve this. He knew he would never be able to look into her eyes again.

His mind drifted to Carlos. His Carlos. With those innocent, trusting eyes. Those beautiful, delicate features, lighting up whenever he saw _his Rodrigo_. His Carlos, revealing all his deepest secrets to him, relying on him in everything, trusting him with his very life. Carlos, opening his heart to him… His poor, naïve, beloved Carlos. _Will you ever forgive me?_

He lied still for a long time, praying for the merciful oblivion of sleep to come. To no effect. His body was numb, he hasn’t dared to move for what seemed like hours. He couldn’t tell how much time exactly has passed since…  _since_.

He hadn’t enjoyed it. But it was necessity, pure necessity. It was the price he had to pay, he told himself. He had tried to cheat his eyes, his senses, his mind. Tried to imagine the _son_ , instead of the _father_ , on top of him, like he had done countless times in the dark of the night since he was just a teenage boy. But the sensation of a beard scratching against his neck with every kiss, the deep, low moans with every thrust against him, and the overwhelming shame, had made it impossible. It had been a torture for his mind, for his soul and for his body, even if in the end, it had betrayed him and obeyed the King’s will.

Suddenly Philip shifted, turning to his back, releasing Posa from his grasp. Rodrigo turned his eyes on the King. They hadn't bothered to close the curtains and now the slim beams of moonlight fell upon his face. He seemed peaceful, detached and somehow even older. Yet Rodrigo didn’t, couldn’t let himself forget, that this man was dangerous, formidable.

He wanted to hate him. He could strangle him now, in his sleep. Get rid of the threat, of the one obstacle that was otherwise impossible to overcome, who held the power to both create and destroy, and yet chose only to ruin. He wanted to hate him. He needed to hate him.

But, God. He couldn’t. As much as he tried to push the thoughts away, his mind kept forcing upon him everything that had happened that night. Kept forcing him to remember how gentle Philip was to him. How every kiss that the King had placed upon his lips, his whole body, was full of tenderness, sincerity. How vulnerable he seemed, when he sank into his arms afterwards. The words he had spoken to him, they day he had seen him for the first time… _I place my heart in your faithful hands._

His _heart_. Could there truly be a warm, beating _heart_ beneath that frozen shell of a ruthless tyrant? Could it be possible to warm it, to melt that façade… To help him. Was there anything left to save?

“You are awake” the quiet, low voice ripped Posa brutally from his thoughts. He glanced at the King whose eyes, fixed at him, gleamed in the moonlight.

“Sir—“ he stopped. _Don’t call me that. Not now. I am not your_ king _now_ – he had told Rodrigo earlier that night. _I haven’t heard anyone address me by my name in years, I can barely remember it myself. I want to hear its sound again, in your voice. See it form on your lips. Call me by my_ name _._

“You are troubled by something” the King has now turned to his side and was still piercing him with his gaze. Rodrigo swallowed tentatively.

“I am simply… thinking, ruminating” he answered finally, his voice little more than a whisper. Philip’s low hum resonated mightily, Rodrigo could almost feel it in his own bones.

“Have you not slept at all?” the king propped himself on one arm looking down at him. Did he sound concerned or was Rodrigo only imagining it?

“Too much excitement I guess” he managed a little smile which the king reciprocated and even gave a short, quiet laugh followed by a long moment of silence from both of them. Rodrigo's heart beat so loudly that he could bet the King was able to hear it. Suddenly Philip sighed and laid back, close, pressing their bodies together, one hand tangled in Rodrigo's hair, playing with a dark, loose strand. He sunk his face in the curve of Posa's neck and placed a few, chaste kisses upon it.

Rodrigo closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. The feeling of Philip's mouth on his skin, of his cool fingers caressing his cheek, was... not entirely unpleasant. Some part of his mind screamed at him, _have you no shame? Stop it, stop it before it's too late,_ but he shoved it as far back as he could.

“I thank God that he gave you to me, my Rodrigo” the king whispered, brushing his mouth against his neck _. My Rodrigo_. The image of Carlos burst into his mind and Rodrigo felt his throat clench and his eyes burn with tears that he quickly blinked away. What would he give for those old, experienced, wrinkled hands traveling across his body, invading every inch of him, tracing the line of his cheekbones, his jaw, his collarbone, going lower and lower, to be the smooth, warm, delicate fingers of his Carlos. How he ached to be able to melt under his touch and to touch him in return. In the dark, in total silence broken only by their quiet moans, with Carlos's body beneath him being his whole world. With those sweet, soft lips parting under the pressure of his mouth. With their fingers entwining, with their bodies connecting...

But the Providence had different plans for him. The Providence has chosen him, sentenced him for a life of serving a purpose higher than those of earthly pleasures and desires. A truly divine purpose. Freedom. Freedom of thought, freedom of deed, freedom of living. How ironic it suddenly seemed to him, that to achieve the freedom of thousands, he had to give up his own. His body, his heart, his very soul - it was his duty to lay them all on the altar of Freedom. And so he did.

"You _are_ mine, are you not?" the King whispered against Rodrigo's neck. _How easier it would be_ , he thought, _to have to sacrifice only his life_.

"Yes, Philip."


End file.
